


Hearts & Lozenges

by okapi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Fluff, M/M, Mostly Johnlock, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Valentine ficlets. Mostly BBC Johnlock fluff, but ratings vary. All chapters stand alone unless otherwise indicated.





	1. JE T'AIME (BBC Sherlock/John Soulmate AU)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mafief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mafief/gifts), [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts), [Turducken_Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turducken_Lady/gifts), [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/gifts), [ancientreader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/gifts), [1butterfly_grl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1butterfly_grl1/gifts), [RJ311](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RJ311/gifts).



> Thank you to everyone who played. It was my first time doing something like this and I had a great time. Happy Valentine's Day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: Mafief  
> The Heart Said: **JE T'AIME**  
>  ‘Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Length: 500  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: SoulMate AU; Sherlock/John; Alternate First Meeting

John lumbered down the street whilst the rest of the world seemed to move a break-neck speed about him.

His pain slowed him. His mind, too.

Oh, it didn’t bear thinking about. He’d been thinking about it his whole life. Nothing had come of it. And what a tired, old, worn record it was!

_Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime._

John didn’t have a soulmate. He’d been around the globe, every country where those words, the words engraved on his left forearm in indelible, soul- _crushing_ ink, might likely be uttered.

Under the guise of ‘finding himself’ and ‘sowing his oats,’ he’d left home at a very young age, travelling, always travelling in search of his soulmate, and as years passed, he’d become something of a Casanova of the Francophone world.

Hot places. Cold places. Islands.

Of course, many people had said the words. It was inevitable, really, once the love-making began in earnest. His lover, or lovers, would invariably look down at the mark on his forearm and said it aloud.

_Je t’aime._

They laughed. They sighed. They said the words over and over.

Over and over, but much too late.

Because they were never the _first_ words a person said to John. No one declared their love so openly these days, and John suspected they never had.

And so, after so many years of disappointment and frustration, John had said to hell with the whole ‘soul-mate finding’ business. He went to medical school, then the Army.

And look where that had got him: hobbling down Saville Row, shell-shocked, penniless, friendless.

It was a car backfiring.

John’s brain, well, part of it, knew that. Nevertheless, it sent him tumbling through the door to his left.

A bell jangled.

When the memories of Afghanistan faded, John realised he was in a tailor’s shop. A small, snug place with shelves and shelves of fabrics. Dark wools, light silks. Flannel and tweed and leather.

“One moment, _monsieur_ ,” a voice called.

The shelves spun and seemed to come alive. John stumbled, disoriented, from corner to corner, until he stopped in an alcove paneled with three full-length mirrors.

A man in a dark grey wool coat stood, admiring himself in the glass.

His eyes met John’s in the reflection and he said, in a posh baritone,

“Je t’aime.”

John stared, his mind blank, until finally he blurted,

“Nice coat.”

The man’s eyes widened, then a small shriveled man in a tape-measure stole appeared, hopping and chirruping like a sparrow.

“ _Naturallemente_ , Monsieur Holmes loves his tailor, and the gentleman is correct. It _is_ the coat of Monsieur.”

The man in the coat turned to John. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John shook the proffered hand, but the maAn didn’t release him after the customary moment. He twisted their wrists and drew back his own woolen sleeve.

And there is was, on the man’s forearm, in straight, square letters.

**Nice coat.**

“Finally. This is the one, Monsieur Stamford,” he said.

John smiled and said, “I could not agree more.”


	2. PUPPY LOVE (ACD Retirment!lock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: Small Hobbit  
> 'Verse: ACD  
> The Lozenge Said: PUPPY LOVE  
> Length: 221B  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: Retirement!lock. Holmes/Watson. Sequel to my ficlet [Fireside](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13096965/chapters/29963316). POV Animal. Nicknames taken from "A Scandal in Winter" by Gillian Linscott.

Silver Stick is long, thin and has a shock of fur the colour of moonlight on the top of his head. Brown Bear is jolly, round and rescued me from another brown bear in the Noisy Place.

In the beginning, Silver Stick picked me and put me in a bag. It was dark. Then he took me out and gave me to Brown Bear. And Brown Bear was so warm, and he held me close and petted me. I licked his face. Then he set me down and I went exploring and that was when the other brown bear, lying flat and still, almost got me.

The next day we all crawled in the Smoky Box with Wheels and went to the Quiet Place, which is now Home.

And Home is the Best.

I chase butterflies and rabbits (but not bees, ouch!) and dig for moles and buried bones. Sometimes, I play with Brown Bear in the flowers. Sometimes we go for walks and I chase the moving water. Sometimes we nap by the Warm Place while Silver Stick makes grasshopper sounds with a curved box and stick.

One cold night when I’m curled by their feet, one says,

“I think he loves it here.”

Of course, I do. What’s not to love about life with Silver Stick and Brown Bear?    


	3. REAL LOVE (BBC Sherlock/John.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: [zigostia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia)  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> The Heart Said: REAL LOVE  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 500  
> Notes: BBC Sherlock/John  
> Summary: The Valentine gift of the Magi.

John woke, uncomfortable.

Sherlock’s eyes were on him.

“What?”

“You were talking in your sleep, John.”

“Oh, yeah? Anything interesting?”

“You said, ‘I suppose it’s the gift of real love.’”

“Huh. When I nap on the sofa,” John pushed himself to sitting with a groan and rubbed his neck, “I always have odd dreams.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, very well,” huffed Sherlock. “What ever did you dream about, John?” The question dripped with mock interest.

“Well, I was broke.”

“Not a dream, John.”

“Yeah, I know. We’d spent Sebastian’s money. I’d had no locum gigs in a long while. All the paying cases had dried up, all the cases period, in fact, save that one where you wrestled with some bloke over the Jeria Diamond, and he snapped your violin bow. Mycroft had still cut you off.”

“Still missing the ‘dream’ part of the sequence, John.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to hang on a bit because, in the dream, Valentine’s Day was approaching and I wanted to get you a nice gift to show, you know…”

“Ah. Dream?”

“Not yet. I mean we’d danced around, uh, you know, at Christmas, being all stiff upper lip and cynical, both wanting to exchange gifts and celebrate the holidays, but not certain the other did and so passing the whole Yuletide season in a kind of bleak, Scrooge-like constipation. And since I don’t know when your birthday is—”

“January 6. “

“What?! Why didn’t you say something?! That was last month! ”

“It would have hardly been fair, John. I didn’t acknowledge your birthday in June.”

“True. Wait, how did you know—?”

Sherlock huffed. “As much as it pains me to say, John, would you please get back to recounting your dream?”

“All right. So I wanted to get you a nice gift and had decided to get you a new bow, but Strad bows aren’t cheap.”

“And?”

“And so since almost everything I own is shite, I had to pawn my gun. It broke my heart.”

Sherlock stared, then nodded thoughtfully. “And?”

“And I bought the bow and gave it to you.”

John paused.

“And?” urged Sherlock.

“And you’d pawned the Strad to buy me a nice mahogany case for my gun. We stared blankly at each other, and then you said,

‘To sacrifice that which is held most dear to bring another joy—'

'—I suppose, that’s the gift of real love,’ I replied.”

“That’s all?” queried Sherlock, tapping his lips with his fingers.

“Yeah.”

“That’s not the gift of real love, John.”

“Nah, it’s the gift of poverty.”

“And imbecility. And a hideous failure in communication, such as the one that led to us both missing out on what could have been a quite festive Christmas.”

“Yeah. So, what would you like for Valentine’s Day, Sherlock?”

Sherlock ticked three items off on his fingers. “Free dinner at Angelo’s. Oral sex. To finish my spores experiment. You?”

“Same, minus the spores.”

“See, there you go, that’s—!”

“Real love,” said John with a grin.


	4. SO FINE (pre-BBC Sherlock/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: [Turducken_Lady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Turducken_Lady)  
> The Heart Said: SO FINE  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Length: 700  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: pre-Sherlock/John. POV Mrs. Hudson. "[He's so fine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rinz9Avvq6A)" is a song by The Chiffons (1963). Also, the next ficlet (ADORBZ) will pick-up from the end of this one.

Mrs. Hudson took pleasure in certain prosaic satisfactions. One was that the current state of her fingernails, freshly manicured, precluded any further housework for the day. Another was that if her date for the evening didn’t meet expectations, she could take comfort, more than comfort, really, in a stiff gin and tonic and an excellent gripe session with Mrs. Turner afterwards, and that Marie, unlike her date, most probably, would make huge fuss over Mrs. Hudson’s nails, which had been done as an ode to Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” in summery yellow, orange, and green.

A third satisfaction, Mrs. Hudson realised as she neared Baker Street, was that Sherlock, bless him, was in Belarus, and that meant that any domestic calamity or unsavory visitors that might threaten Mrs. Hudson’s date or her manicure—in that order—were highly unlikely.

Mrs. Hudson tried the door, hoping it was unlocked. She didn’t really want to fish for her keys, though she’d purposefully placed them and her phone, left and right front jumper pocket respectively, for easy, minimal-polish-smudging retrieval. She gently, carefully turned the knob, but halted inside when she heard the burst of song from above.

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_Do-lang, do-lang_

_He’s so fine_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

Was that John? Propriety and curiosity waged a fierce battle. The latter won. Mrs. Hudson slipped off her shoes and crept upstairs.

_Wish he were mine_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_That handsome boy over there_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_The one with the wavy hair_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

Oh, goodness!

Mrs. Hudson couldn’t blame John. She would have also used Sherlock’s absence as an opportunity for some long overdue cleaning. And she, too, appreciated a bit of music to make housework less of a drudge. Not Motown, but to each their own.

Mrs. Hudson kept herself flat to the wall so as to not be seen, then impishly remembered her phone.

_I don’t know how I’m gonna do it_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_But I’m gonna make him mine_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_He’s the envy of all the girls_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_It’s just a matter of time_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

John crooned into the head of the mop handle. And shimmied. And swayed. And spun. Then he abandoned the mop took up Sherlock’s coat.

Mrs. Hudson was mildly surprised to see the coat had been left behind, but she supposed that in August, even in a place like Belarus, heavy grey wool was overdoing it.

And she noticed, with much amusement, as John and the coat crisscrossed the room in a kind of sashaying, hopping, waltzing foxtrot, that John was leading.

_He’s a soft spoken guy_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_Also seems kinda shy_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_Makes me wonder if I_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_Should even give him a try_

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

Oh, the poor dear. She wished that John and Sherlock would stop, well, dancing around each other, but it was really none of her business, and everything had a season and one day, some straw would quite come along and break that particular dromedary’s back.

_But then I know he can’t shy—_

Oh, no.

Mrs. Hudson dropped her phone in her pocket just in time.

“Christ, Mrs. Hudson! You gave me a scare.”

“I called,” she lied, “but the music…” She made a vague gesture.

“Sorry, sorry.”

The music faded.

“Anything for the cleaners?” she asked innocently.

“Oh, yeah, let’s see,” he looked about, then glanced down and chuckled, “Uh, how about the coat?” He draped it over her outstretched arm. “Bit embarrassing, this. You won’t tell, uh, Sherlock about it?”

“Oh no,” she assured him, “I won’t tell a soul.”

A lie, of course, because her right hand already was sunk in her deep pocket, carefully, or so she thought, texting.

But for her nails, she would think much later.

**Yrs mayb marrrid bt mne r adorbz**

* * *

 

Sherlock read the text thrice before clicking on the video icon. It did not appear to be a coded message for help from Mrs. Hudson, nevertheless, he braced himself an image of some unpleasantness befalling her.

_Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang_

_Do-lang, do-lang…_

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.

This was, by far, the most interesting thing that had happened in Belarus.


	5. ADORBZ. (BBC Sherlock/John. Friends to Lovers. Rating: Mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: [ancientreader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/pseuds/ancientreader)  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> The Heart Said: ADORBZ  
> Rating: Mature  
> Length: 2000  
> Notes: Sherlock/John; Friends to Lovers; Masturbation; Voyeurism/Exhibitionism; continuation of previous chapter

“Abdorbz,” spat John, casting a look of disgust at Sherlock’s phone.

“John, Mrs. Hudson has apologised. It was a moment of questionable judgment followed by a simple mistake. You’re embarrassed, but really, hanging onto the anger will harm you more than anything.”

“When did you become the emotionally mature one?” he asked.

Sherlock smirked. “About the same time that you started reading my mind.”

John leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “All right. Out with it. Joke. Mock.”

“Not at all. Your performance was—”

“Adorbz?”

Sherlock inclined his head thoughtfully. “Not a word I would use unless I desired to annoy my brother. Charming, perhaps?”

John snorted. “Well, I’ve no doubt you’ll get some mileage out of it at some point.”

“I got a clean flat out of it,” countered Sherlock. He answered John’s disbelieving look with a huff. “I may not perform domestic tasks, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate them.”

* * *

The following afternoon, John received a text.

**We’re even. SH**

John removed himself from the flow of pedestrian traffic and leaned against a wall. He tapped the video icon.

Music swelled, and a fairytale voice sang.

_I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream_

Sherlock was dancing about the flat in pyjamas and dressing gown. With John’s gun. His movements were ballet-like, graceful, elegant, swooping turns and dips from one side of the room to the other. The voice continued to croon.

_I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam_

_And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem_

_But if I know you, I know what you’ll do_

_You’ll love me at once_

Sherlock took aim just above the eye of the camera.

BANG!

_the way you did once_

BANG!

_upon a dream_

BANG! BANG!

There was the sound of footfall on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson’s sharp cry of ‘Young man, young man!’ and the image stilled.

John’s outrage at the indoor target practise and the unauthorised appropriation of his firearm was mild, as was his anxiety about the hike in next month’s rent.

**Charming. JW**

Was possible that Sherlock Holmes was flirting with him? No, that was a product of John’s own ego. Sherlock had said that relationships weren’t his area.

But.

But that was a while ago. And now there was a relationship. A friendship, at least, but there really wasn’t any ‘at least’ about it. A friendship like theirs was singular, as in a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. John knew that. He thought Sherlock did, too.

John didn’t want to muck about with what they had, no matter how kissable he thought Sherlock’s cupid’s bow or he often he might fantasise about grabbing two fistfuls of Sherlock’s arse.

And Sherlock hadn’t shown any interest in John.

Or had he?

* * *

Sherlock peered over the top of his magazine as John examined the wall.

“Christ, that’s going to cost us,” said John.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.

They held each other’s gaze, then burst into laughter.

“You’re mad,” said John, trying to control himself.

Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Oh, too bad. I was shooting,” at this John howled, “for adorbz.”

John wiped his eyes. “So, the dancing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I love to dance. I live in hope of the right case. Your own sense of rhythm was not altogether unpleasing.”

“Yeah, well.”

Dancing with Sherlock. Their bodies moving together. John shook his head abruptly and said,

“Wouldn’t work.”

Of course, John wouldn’t realise until much, much later that neither he nor Sherlock had mentioned dancing together aloud. Nevertheless, Sherlock’s reply comprehendingly.

“Why not?” he queried.

“I’d want to lead,” said John.

“Who says I wouldn’t let you?” replied Sherlock offhandedly.

John was about to do something when life intervened.

_BEEP!_

* * *

 

It was an eight-day case, the kind with little food, less sleep, and a race against a clock of the catch-me-before-I-kill-again variety.

It was six o’clock in the morning when Sherlock and John finally returned to the flat for good.

“Christ, this place is a fright,” said John.

Toppling piles of books. Clothes and papers strewn. Maps, notes, and diagrams pinned to the wall. Bits of meals hastily thrown together and a dozen or so cups of tea, most only missing one or two sips.

“Remember when we sent cute videos to each other?” wondered John aloud as he checked his phone. “That seems an eternity ago.”

Sherlock grunted.

He was still gorgeous, but tired.

Christ, to be able to take him to bed right now.

Fuck, then sleep all day, then fuck again.

John’s cock stirred at the thought.

Cute videos. John could make Sherlock a cute video right now that would—

“What?” asked Sherlock.

John blinked. “Huh?”

“You said something about a video.”

“Didn’t it kill the radio star?” John asked wearily. Then he headed toward the stairs.

* * *

“Wow. You did all this?” asked John when he came down the stairs ten hours later.

“Mrs. Hudson is doing laundry.”

“Still. Order restored.”

The nice, long sleep had done John a world of good; the nice, long wank, not so much. He was still thinking about Sherlock in ways he shouldn’t be. He shuffled to the kitchen.

“Full English?” he asked.

“Just tea and toast for me,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” John growled as he opened the tea cupboard and banged mugs on the counter. “You should eat. Put some meat on your arse.”

Christ, really? John had to stop, full stop, thinking about—

“Then, however would I get the stick up it?” replied Sherlock as he slowly flipped the page of a magazine.

John smiled and went back to tea and his own thoughts, which he was deep in when he realised Sherlock was talking to him.

“…and I say, well, the recorded version is a very poor substitute for a live performance.”

John replayed the words.

Sherlock wanted a performance. Of John’s dancing. Christ, there was no way that wouldn’t end up with a show of the non-musical persuasion.

“What?” asked John.

“Rimsky-Korsakov. In about an hour. Reward for job well done. Live performance always beats a recording, no?”

“Jesus,” said John. He was mad. He needed to get his head examined. Or his ears.

“Interested?” asked Sherlock.

“Nah, I can nap at home for free. Oh, fuck, I didn’t mean, like—"

“It’s all right, John. I don’t mind going alone. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’ll get your toast,” mumbled John.

* * *

The hot water beat down on John.

Sherlock.

Sherlock looking like a goddamn wet dream in his off-to-the-symphony attire. John should’ve gone with him, but, like Cinderella, he had absolutely nothing, nothing like that, at least, to wear to the ball.

After Sherlock had left, John had paced. He done the washing up. He had tried to read. He had tried to write up the case for the blog. But most of the time, he was just staring at the wall, thinking about Sherlock.

Just say something. Something simple.

A couple hours had passed, and John had decided to take a shower.

And then he done something he shouldn’t have.  He'd left the bathroom door half-open.

“Oh, God,” John breathed. Sherlock in that suit that fit him like a glove. John making a wretched mess of that suit. Hands full of dark curls as Sherlock sucked him off. Hands full of arse as John rut against him. Or sank his cock into Sherlock’s hole.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sherlock,” John chanted.

The steam and the heat and the spray and one hand stroking his ready prick and one hand cupping his bollocks, giving them a just too-tight squeeze as his body jerked.

* * *

Mugs.

John was pulling on a vest and pyjama bottoms when he heard mugs hit the counter and spoons clink in the mugs.

He walked down the hall. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm. Tea?”

“Yeah.”

“How was the concert?” asked John when he reached the kitchen.

“Good,” said Sherlock, not looking up from the tea-making.

John nodded. “Just get back?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

John’s brain split into the Fuckity-fuck-fuck Express and the Slow ‘Be Careful What You Wish For’ Local.

Then Sherlock looked at John, and John was a butterfly pinned under glass. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock walked past John.

Sherlock’s bedroom door squeaked.

 _Once_.

Christ.

John padded down the hall.

Sherlock’s back was to John, his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of the wardrobe door. His head was bent as he reached behind himself, tugging at the sleeves of his suit jacket. He hung the jacked up in the wardrobe, then removed his cufflinks and shirt studs.

Of course, he wore cufflinks and shirt studs.

John wasn’t certain he was even breathing as Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt.

Fuck!

And, and even though John had just had a nice wank, he was getting hard again.

Was he supposed to wank? Allowed to wank?

John ogled Sherlock’s half-bare shoulders, then met Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror.

Too much. Or wrong. Or something.

John turned to flee, but only got three steps away.

“John, stop.”

John stopped, but he didn’t turn around.

“I’m not really a pervert,” John blurted. “I mean, I don’t send dick pics or, you know, leave the bathroom door open on purpose while I wank. Christ, I am a pervert.”

“Any more of a pervert than I am for listening to you?” asked Sherlock quietly.

“You were listening?”

“Naturally. It’s one thing to deduce, but it’s quite another to hear confirmed. But leaving the notion of perversion aside, what do you want, John?”

“I don’t want to make a bloody mess of this, Sherlock. You’re my friend, and you’re so special, so extraordinary. I don’t want to—”

“How do you think I feel? You’re my only friend! And I have no bloody idea what I’m doing! I am following your lead, John.”

John licked his lips. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. Too many things.”

“What do you want right now?”

There was no hesitation. “I want you to watch.”

“Can I wank?”

“By all means.”

John was in danger of coming untouched. Sherlock had stripped and moved to the bed and spread himself. Now he was stroking his own prick, which was, unsurprisingly, as gorgeous as the rest of him.

John tried to keep pace with Sherlock’s rhythm, but it was no use, after three tugs he was leaning hard against the door and decorating the wood and his fist with spurts. He watched Sherlock come, then fetched a pair of flannels.

John stood there, like a hotel attendant expecting a tip, after they’d cleaned themselves but Sherlock just stared blankly.

Finally, John said, “Yeah, I’m just going to, uh,” he gestured to the door, “drink tea or something.”

* * *

John collapsed, face-first, on the sofa.

What was wrong with them? Why couldn’t they get this right?

John would march back there and—

“John.”

John leapt up and threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck. They crashed together back to the sofa, Sherlock drawing his dressing gown aside so that his nude form fell atop John.

“I’m sorry, John. I should’ve—”

“Me, too, me, too—”

John grabbed Sherlock by the hair and bit at his mouth hungrily. Then he quickly remembered that this was their first kiss and slowed his assault to something softer, wetter, but no less hungry.

A groan rumbled in Sherlock’s throat. “Yes,” he breathed when their lips finally parted. “That’s what I want.”

John pulled the blanket draped on the back of sofa on top of them. Then he slipped his hands beneath wool and silk and gripped Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock grinned deliciously. “And that’s what you’ve wanted for a while.”

John bit his mouth again, then said, “We’ll figure it out, yeah?”

“Naturally.”

* * *

The next morning, Mrs. Hudson set the laundered clothes on the table and smiled at the two sleeping forms twined together on the sofa. She snapped a photo of their jumbled toes and soles and texted it Mrs. Turner.

**Finally!**

The reply came at once.

**Adorbz!**


	6. NICE (BBC Sherlock/John. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart said: NICE  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> For: [1butterfly_grl1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1butterfly_grl1)  
> Length: 221b  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: Sherlock/John; fluff.  
> Summary: Gift selection for Sherlock Holmes is never easy.

John had thought long and hard about what to get Sherlock for Valentine's Day.  It was unlikely the git actually celebrated the day, but that didn't mean John wasn't going to give him something.  Eventually John had settled on a box of tiny Belgian chocolate violins; different, nothing too overtly 'hearts and flowers,' and relevant to Sherlock.  And if the worst came to the worst, John could always eat them himself.

They were sitting down together eating breakfast—or at least John was having toast, Sherlock was absentmindedly drinking tea whilst staring at his laptop.  John surreptitiously slid the box of chocolates over to Sherlock, who glanced up, remarked, "Oh, that's nice," and resumed his browsing.

"Nice," yelled John.  "Is this the best you can come up with?  I spent ages looking for something appropriate for you!"

He was prevented from saying anything further by a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson coming in with a huge heart-shaped box of chocolates, which she presented to John.  Meanwhile, Sherlock seemed to have found something particularly absorbing on his computer.

"Oh!" John said.  "These are from you, aren't they?  Um..."

Sherlock looked up, smirking, "You'll just have to find a way to make it up to me, won't you?"

John looked at Sherlock, and, realising what he was thinking, started to blush.


	7. SMOOCHES (BBC Johnlock & Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart said: SMOOCHES  
> For: Daybora  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Length: 500  
> Rating: Gen  
> Notes: Sherlock/John; Mycroft/Lestrade.  
> Summary: On Valentine's Day, Sherlock & Mycroft find themselves in the centre of Hell.

Raucous music spilled onto the pavement as people exited the double-glass doors. Mycroft’s alarm grew as he approached. He didn’t frequent cafés or pubs, and he certainly would never consider darkening the door of whatever this establishment was, but for a certain Detective Inspector.

“Hel-lo!” sounded the sing-song cry above the deafening music. “Welcome to Chippie’s, where love is in the air tonight! Woo-hoo! Happy Valentine’s Day!”

The hostess fired a plastic gun above Mycroft’s head, and a small shower of glittery pink confetti rained down upon him.

Mycroft wished to vomit. He smiled a smile he hadn’t used since his field days.

A waitress approached him. “Are you a Cupid’s Bow or a Cupid’s Arrow?” she asked with a wink. A sickeningly sweet and cinnamon-y aroma wafted up from her tray of pink and red cocktails.

“Neither, I’m afraid,” said Mycroft, thankful he’d skipped lunch.

His reply seemed to amuse the waitress. She giggled, then said, “I’ve got the perfect thing for you, sweetie. Meet you at the bar.” She gave Mycroft the once over, blew him a kiss, and sailed away.

Despite its questionable origins, the suggestion was a good one. Mycroft slowly wound his way through the crowd towards the bar, brushing aside the tails of streamers and balloons hanging down from the ceiling.

“Oh, dear God,” he said when he reached his destination.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Sherlock. “Until a moment ago, I thought this to be only one of the inner circles of Hell. Now I am certain, it is very centre. I may turn to prayer.”

“How about a photo of the happy couple?” screeched a voice.

“Yeah!” said another.

“Say ‘SMOOCHES!’”

Just then, someone knocked into Mycroft, who, in turn, knocked into Sherlock.

There was a flash and a mumbled “Sorry, mate.”

Mycroft smiled that smile again.

“All right, I’m going,” said Sherlock. “I think fifteen minutes is more than enough atonement for accidentally setting fire to John’s favourite jumper. And, really, if this is what Lestrade thinks is a proper first date, he has two reasons for getting his head examined.”

“Hey, there you are!” John and Lestrade emerged from the crowd, grinning. “Did you hear us?”

“Can anyone hear anything?” asked Mycroft peevishly.

“We just won the first round of karaoke!” cried Lestrade. “‘Islands in the Stream.’ John was Dolly.”

Sherlock and Mycroft blinked.

“How about a photo?” cried a voice.

Four voices screamed at once.

“Oh, yeah!”

“Oh, no!”

“Say ‘SMOOCHES!’”

FLASH!

* * *

“…and I know it’s unconventional,” said John, “being best man at my own wedding. But it’s a double wedding and, well, conventions fly out the window when you even think about marrying a Holmes. Am I right, Greg? Yeah, yeah. Where to begin? They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, so let’s, there we go, there it is, let everyone take a look at a photo from our very first double date…

Laughter erupts.

“Right. They look thrilled, don’t they? But things got a lot better…

 


	8. SMILE (BBC Sherlock/John. Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart said: SMILE  
> For: Audrey  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 221b  
> Notes: Sherlock/John. Fluff.  
> Summary: John loves all of Sherlock's smiles.

John loves all of Sherlock’s smiles. The smile of impish glee, for example, when Sherlock has decided to forgo pants on a visit to Buckingham Palace. Or, after the visit, when he gifts a pilfered ashtray to John.

Then there’s the smile of pride that lights Sherlock’s eyes, but does nothing to his lips, when John makes a deduction that is _almost_ correct.

There is the smile of seduction when the case is closed, the danger vanquished, and, most often, John is wearing _those_ jeans. It is usually accompanied by a removal of Sherlock’s scarf in a manner that takes John’s breath away.

Once in a while, John catches a soft, gentle smile on Sherlock’s face. It is usually a lazy Sundays when they are doing nothing in particular, but doing it together.

Then there is the tiny, tight, but nonetheless genuine, smile that greets every ‘extraordinary,’ every ‘fantastic,’ every ‘amazing,’ that John utters, regardless of frequency, circumstance, or audience.

There’s also the smirk of a smile when someone steps toward Sherlock menacingly and John steps in-between.

There’s the smile that isn’t seen, but rather pressed to John’s skin, when Sherlock has found that spot, that spot, that spot, with his fingers, with his mouth, with prick, and John shatters into shards of pleasure.

To John, they’re all Sherlock, all beautiful.


	9. COOL (BBC Sherlock/John. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart said: COOL  
> For: [RJ311](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RJ311/pseuds/RJ311)  
> 'Verse: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: Teen  
> Length: 300  
> Notes: BBC Sherlock/John; fluff; almost a prose-poem.  
> Summary: Sherlock is cool. John is warm.

Sherlock Holmes is cool. His expression is icy, his eyes a winter’s sky grey. His greeting, if one is given at all, is chilly. He has cold, hard facts, many of them, archived in the Bodleian of his mind. His appraisal is cool, with a single, frosty glance, he discovers the gem in the ore without one pang for the dross. Sherlock’s words are cool, cutting, sharp, like icicle-daggers. His movements are cool, too; he removes a scarf, catches a pen, vaults a rail, with the grace of an Old Hollywood lead. His skin, alabaster, smooth, is cool. Like stone.

John Watson is warm. His temper is hot. His blood goes from simmer to boil in an instant. He sweats. A lot. His skin pinks, reddens, browns. His grip, at times, is white with clenching. His arguments, with a flatmate, with a chip-and-pin machine, with an archenemy, with himself, are often heated. He swears. A lot; sometimes, the spark of one oath, sometimes a chain like a dragon’s fire-stream. His smile is balmy, temperate, like a spring day. His jumpers are cosy. He is known to lick his lips, for they are often chapped, dry, you know, from the heat.

When cool meets warm, cool melts, warm freezes, but that isn’t them.

Because Sherlock Holmes is cold, John Watson is hot. And when cold meets hot, they skip the slushy middle ground. And become steam.

Steam that fogs the mirror of a bathroom as bodies cling to, rut against each other. Steam that clouds the window of car, of train, as open mouths press to glass, moan out pleasure. Steam than rises from a pan of something forgotten while bodies writhe on the kitchen floor.

Steam that reveals, like invisible ink, the coded messages, the hidden natures, of their love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
